Mission: Her Protection (Team 52 #1)(7)

The other woman grabbed his arm. “You sure?”

He met their gazes. “I’m sure.”

As they looked him in the eyes, their smiles faded. One shivered, and the one touching him stepped back.

“Ah…okay.” The lip-licker was now biting her lip.

They skirted around him, heels clicking on the sidewalk as they scurried away.

A faint smile tipped his lips. He was used to the reaction. Women either avoided him, or the wilder, bolder ones threw themselves at him. Blair, his pain-in-the-ass best friend and his second-in-command, had once told him, “Lachlan, you’ve got a hell of a body and a rugged, handsome face designed to make a woman weep…until she looks at your golden eyes. Tiger eyes. Flat, scary, and predatory.”

Of course, Blair wasn’t scared of him. She and the rest of his team got a few good laughs over the way people froze and took a step back in his presence. Lachlan didn’t give a shit. He’d been intense as a kid, too, and only one neighborhood friend hadn’t been afraid of him. The memory of a sassy little redhead with sad blue eyes sprang into his head. Hell, she’d been ten and he’d been thirteen when he’d moved away.

When his dad had put a gun in his mouth and ended his life.

Lachlan shook off the past. He knew there were far worse things out there than him, and he was more than happy to wade through the scum in order to protect his country.

He’d seen the shitty underbelly of life. Crawled facefirst through the muck and mire of war, having seen and dealt with things he never wanted to think about, ever again. He flexed his right hand. His entire right arm was a high-tech prosthetic, and when he was off-duty and back in Vegas, he kept it out of sight under a Henley and a thin, skin-colored glove. He opened his titanium fingers, hidden under the glove. Yep, he’d gotten up close and personal with the worst of the worst.

And he’d keep doing it, to ensure that women could dress up in pretty dresses and have fun, so families could sleep safely in their beds at night, and his mom could enjoy her happy retirement in Florida.

He’d done it as a Marine, and now as leader of the covert, black ops group known as Team 52.

Reaching the glass doors to the store, he stepped inside. He came in enough that he was a regular. The tense atmosphere hit him in the face instantly.

In a split second, he took in the situation—the stressed, terrified young man behind the register, and the man in front of the counter with his back to Lachlan. The man appeared tense and jumpy, and was shouting. He was also waving around a Smith & Wesson 9mm. A man and woman were cowering in the aisle near the fridges.

“Hey, Ricky,” Lachlan called out, striding toward the beer fridge. “How’s it hanging?”

Ricky, who was tall but hadn’t yet filled out, looked at Lachlan with wide eyes. “Uh…hey, Lachlan.”

“Just needed some beer.” Lachlan grabbed a six-pack of Coronas.

He nodded at the couple, and gave them a discreet wave to move back. Then he turned, strolled to the front of the store and set the beer on the counter.

“How much?” he asked.

“Are you stupid?” the man beside him screamed.

The guy stank and was clearly high. His clothes were stained with sweat and food.

“Nope,” Lachlan said.

“This is a robbery!”

Lachlan raised a brow. “No, it’s not. This is you choosing to do the wrong thing, at the wrong time, in the wrong place.” Lachlan lowered his tone. “It is not your day, friend.”

“I’m not your friend!”

Lachlan just stared at the man.

As Lachlan’s look clearly penetrated, fear skittered over the man’s face. Then the addict dredged up some bravado, spluttering as he swung the gun toward Lachlan.

Lachlan moved fast. He slammed his hand to the back of the man’s head. The man’s face smashed into the counter.

When he came up, his nose was broken and blood dripped down his face. He howled.

Ignoring him, Lachlan grabbed the gun, and thrust the side of his prosthetic palm into the man’s throat.

Gagging, the man dropped to his knees, clawing at his neck.

Lachlan looked at Ricky, who was standing there, his mouth hanging open.

“Duct tape?”

“Huh?” Ricky blinked.

“You got any duct tape?”

“Uh…yeah.” The young man fished around in a drawer, then handed a roll of silver tape to Lachlan.

With quick, practiced moves, Lachlan taped the would-be robber’s wrists and ankles together. He was sobbing now.

“Call the cops, Ricky,” Lachlan ordered.

The kid nodded jerkily and turned to the phone.

Lachlan glanced at the couple. “You guys okay?”

They both nodded, creeping forward, their gazes darting between Lachlan and the sobbing robber.

“We’re okay thanks to you,” the man said.

Lachlan lifted his chin, then glanced back at Ricky. “How much do I owe you for the beer?”

“Nothing, man. Wow, you were like—” he made a motion with his hand “—I dunno, Batman or something.”

Lachlan tried not to wince. If Blair ever heard that, she’d bust her gut laughing. “Minus the dumb mask.”

“You were so cool, dude,” Ricky breathed.

A vibration in his pocket. Lachlan pulled out his sleek, black phone. It looked like a normal cellphone but was actually satellite-equipped, plus had a few hidden extras as well. “Hunter.”